These Wounds Won't Seem To Heal
by define-serenity
Summary: [Barry/Caitlin] She forgets about the present until Christmas day. Why Barry chose to hand out his gifts days before Christmas is unclear, but she enjoys the sentiment behind it, a thank you for all the wounds she patched up, maybe an 'I forgive you' for every time she yelled at him. ONESHOT. COMPLETE. Uncharted 'Verse.


Barry/Caitlin, 1719 words, pg-rated

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**_These Wounds Won't Seem To Heal_**

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She forgets about the present until Christmas day. Why Barry chose to hand out his gifts days before Christmas is unclear, but she enjoys the sentiment behind it, a thank you for all the wounds she patched up, maybe an 'I forgive you' for every time she yelled at him, even though she never sought his forgiveness for those specific trespasses. It hasn't even been a year for Barry, it's been nine months in a coma and three months of this, of running around and getting beat up and not-too-secretly thinking it's the best thing that ever happened to him.

But she likes the fact that she's gained enough significance in his life, that Cisco and Harrison warrant the same, and that despite his new calling Barry is still Barry, hopelessly sentimental when push comes to shove.

Christmas has always been quite magical. As a child her parents spent a lot of money on a big tree, lavishly decorated with colored lights, tinsel she never could quite get to the top of the tree, and a beautiful Christmas star at the top – her mom often worked Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, so it was her and her dad, making a mess of the kitchen, staying up too late watching Christmas movies. After her mom left they still made a mess of the kitchen; the tree turned smaller, the presents weren't as expensive, but they made it special together.

The past three years she'd taken her dad over to Ronnie's, whose family went all out in every way; matching Christmas sweaters, dozens of presents, a table full of food... That was her future, one she looked forward to having year after year, a big family to make up for the one she never had; maybe, eventually, she and Ronnie might even have a baby.

But that wasn't meant to be.

Ronnie's family didn't celebrate Christmas last year, and her dad sat with her by Harrison's bedside at the hospital all night. They didn't talk, didn't exchange presents, didn't make a mess of anything beyond what the explosion had done to her heart.

This year, none of them get the Christmas they thought they would.

Harrison isn't up for celebrating and gets beat up for his trouble, gone home early to recover once again.

Barry's fourteen-year-old wounds are reopened, salt rubbed into them for good measure, beat up by the very man who killed his mother all those years ago.

And she gets Ronnie back. In a way. He's not the same man, he's tormented by what the particle accelerator explosion did to him and in her darkest moments she can't help but wonder: how is Barry the only one who came out of that accident unscathed, his morals intact, his enthusiasm untempered? Why is Barry the only one who got a normal life back? Guilt inevitably follows in the wake of such dark thoughts so she pushes it from her mind. Barry's not just her patient. He's a friend. A friend who understands. She can't blame him for what happened.

Earlier tonight, Barry had found her outside – Iris made sure to invite her and Cisco over for Christmas Eve; she promised her dad she'd have dinner with him tomorrow, and she could use the presence of friends as a distraction. It didn't help much, her mind kept wandering, Ronnie's face came to life right before her eyes and it filled her with such terror; what if he was doomed to this existence forever? What if they didn't find a way to help him? What if he ended up in the pipeline where he died, locked up with all the other meta-humans they'd been unable to strip of their powers?

It was unbearable to think about, the weight on her chest rushed the air from her lungs and a headache pierced at her temples. After the tree was lit and she'd drunk the acceptable amount of Grandma Esther's eggnog she found a spot outside on the porch and sat, staring blankly ahead, not one bit bothered by the snow.

She gazed down at the ring on her left ring finger and contemplated taking it off once again – she'd tried so many times, too many times, in between all the moments she managed to forget her grief for a few instances, when Barry stumbled into their lives, when he gave her the strength to go down to the pipeline. She had _almost_, _almost_, _almost_ so many times she lost count, once on her birthday, once on Ronnie's birthday, once when their wedding date approached. But that ring and her memories were all she'd had for so long.

Maybe now that Ronnie was back, in a way, she'd finally find the strength.

"Hey."

A voice. _Barry's voice_.

"Hey."

Her voice.

She didn't move.

Barry sat down beside her, a mug of eggnog cupped between both hands, and his eyes set in the same distant gaze she'd sunk into. For a second or two she'd been convinced Barry might ask, _how are you_, _how are you feeling_, _why didn't you tell me about Ronnie_, but what was the point? They both felt the same way, cut open all over again, old wounds now wounds anew, bloody and raw, the scalpel of memory moved with great precision along the scar tissue they'd allowed to grow. Fourteen years for Barry. Barely a year for her. Yet so very much the same.

So they sat in complete silence, encased in their own small world of turmoil. Shared. But not really.

In all the chaos of the past few days she'd forgotten all about Barry's gift. The white-ribboned box wrapped in blue lay waiting for her on the coffee table where she'd dropped it two days ago and sat there gathering dust.

After all the chaos of the past few days, though, maybe it's a good thing she'd left it untouched.

She makes some tea and slips into something more comfortable, one of Ronnie's old shirts and some slacks, and settles down on the couch. She turns on the television without watching it, but the apartment's been too quiet since she's been on her own; Ronnie used to accidentally smack mugs together in the kitchen, emptied the dishwasher a little too loud for her taste, played old rock music while he finished some chore. She kept his records, Ronnie's dad insisted, but she hasn't played them.

"Merry Christmas to me," she mutters and reaches for the present, carefully peeling off the ribbon.

She takes her time, pulls her legs close to her chest and frees every corner the scotch tape holds in place, until the wrapping paper comes free and reveals a black satin jewelry box. Surely Barry didn't actually buy her jewelry… she'll have to get him something in return, maybe for his birthday.

A small envelope detaches from the bottom of the box, falling to her lap.

Quickly opening it she pulls out a small card, Barry's handwriting looping into, "For all the times I've messed up your hair," followed by a distinct winky face.

She frowns and grabs the box again, slowly opening it, and gasps at its contents. The box contains a large hairpin, a peacock, different colored stones decorating the big tail, the pin heavy in her hand. It's one of the most beautiful things she's ever seen, the colors, the gold-colored frame; she rarely puts her hair up, save for getting it out of the way from time to time, but this is as good an excuse as any to start trying out some new things.

She lies down with the pin in hand and secrets away a small smile. Perhaps it's best she starts focusing on the small things; she made a new friend in Barry this year, Cisco and Harrison haven't left her side, she's met Iris and Eddie and Joe, she's seen things she never thought possible. She started believing in the impossible. Ronnie's back, in a way, but it's only been three months and the answers might yet be out there. She might yet get him back.

Slowly, gently, she falls asleep on the couch, people caroling outside, clock ticking, the hairpin tumbling to the ground once sleep whisks her away completely.

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It isn't until eight months later, when fresh trauma has left new lesions all over her heart, that she actually wears the pin. Ronnie's gone again, he left behind a note just like her mother did because he knew it'd break her heart, it'd make her call it quits, it'd make her move on. And for the first time in what must be two years she lets herself; she can't keep holding on to a fantasy of what she once had, a lie she spun to cope with all the pain. She thought Ronnie Raymond the love of her life. Maybe she was wrong.

Barry invited her to the police ball, _just as friends_, but that's a term they've both started tiptoeing around these past few weeks. She bought a new dress for the occasion, something black and short and maybe a little naughty at the back, and tied up her hair, adding the peacock hairpin as a finishing touch.

She looks at her reflection in the mirror and smiles; she feels beautiful, she feels whole again, and that's not just because of Barry. Glancing down she catches sight of her engagement ring, dangling from a chain on a hook on the wall. For the first time in weeks she decides, _no_, _I'm not wearing it_, _not tonight_, _not with this dress_.

Barry's fingers ruffle at the front door and she hurries to get her things together; they're already running late, ironically, a trait so very _Barry Allen_ even his super speed hadn't been able to change it.

"Sorry I'm late," Barry exasperates the moment she opens the door.

"You look nice," she says, eyes ticking down the tailored black suit and matching tie, and when she looks up to meet Barry's eyes they've gone wide at the sight of her.

"You look beautiful," Barry breathes, giddy like a schoolboy picking a girl up for prom. Maybe deep down that's how she feels too, special, cared for, loved, because she secrets away a big smile with the turn of her head, a small shake, and reaching for Barry's arm.

She closes the door behind her.

**- FIN -**

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**_fin_**

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End file.
